Pray For Us Sinners
by Philip Luber
Chapter One: RACHEL
Santa Claus lay hurt: cut and bleeding.
His Salvation Army kettle was tipped over, and scattered coins on the sidewalk
reflected the light of a nearby street lamp.
The little girl and her mother chanced upon the scene when they emerged from
the department store. The girl noticed the small cluster of bystanders, then
the overturned kettle, and then the stretched-out figure of the man in the red
costume. He was lying on the sidewalk, his head propped up against the
lamppost. It was drizzling lightly, and the drops that had collected on the
lamppost trickled down onto the man's head.
Santa Claus was black. She had seen black people before, of course. There was
one in her fourth-grade class, and a few scattered through the other grades in
her school. But she had never seen one bleed.
Blood dripped from the man's lower lip to his synthetic white beard. She
thought: It's the same color as mine. It would have to be, of course;
her brain told her that. After all, blood is blood. But seeing the red flow on
the black face was jarring for a moment, nonetheless.
The half-dozen bystanders stood quiet and still in the drizzle, none of them
taking any action. The girl's mother stepped forward. "What
happened?" she asked.
A woman in an expensive fur coat with an umbrella shrugged her shoulders and
turned away, sniffing the chilly air as if she were trying to locate the source
of an offensive odor.
A tall man said, "A couple of teenagers. They grabbed some dollar bills.
When they started to run away they bumped into him and he fell. They ran off
that way." He pointed down Washington Street toward the Town Hall area.
"This is Wellesley," said the woman in fur. "These things don't
happen here."
The girl's mother said, "Apparently they do." She drew a handkerchief
from her handbag and knelt next to the black man. "Has anyone called the
police?" she asked the others.
The bystanders glanced back and forth at one another. No one spoke.
"No," she said, answering her own question. "I suppose
not." She looked at her daughter. "Darling, there's a pay phone in
the lobby. Dial the operator and tell her a man has been attacked outside Filene's.
I'm sure one of these nice people will lend you a dime." She leaned
sarcastically on the word nice.
"She won't need money to call the operator," huffed the woman in fur.
The girl's mother glared at the woman, then said to her daughter, "Go
ahead, darling."
The girl took a step toward the revolving door. This apparently shamed the tall
man into action. "I'll call," he said, and he disappeared inside.
Her mother leaned toward the black man and dabbed at his blood with her
handkerchief. "You must be cold," she said. "Do you suppose you
can stand and walk inside the store?"
He didn't respond at first; he looked at her without expression. Then he
shuddered, closed his eyes for a moment, and nodded.
"Here. Let me help you." Her mother placed a hand under the man's arm
and guided him to his feet.
The Santa rose slowly. He steadied himself and looked at the bloodstained cloth
on the ground. "Sorry about your handkerchief."
"It's not a problem."
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"Rachel Pace."
"Is this your daughter?"
"Yes."
He glanced at the girl and smiled, then turned back to the girl's mother.
"God bless you," he said. "God bless you, Rachel Pace."
Afterward the girl and her mother walked east on Washington Street. The drizzle
began to fall more steadily as they walked.
"Mom, do you think they'll catch the people who did it?"
"I hope so, darling."
"Why would somebody steal money from the Salvation Army?"
Her mother sighed. "I don't know. But it makes me angry. That woman in the
mink coat was right. This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen here."
The girl thought about that as they walked past the upscale gift shops and
clothing stores. "How come there aren't many black people in
Wellesley?"
"I suppose it's a matter of money. And of prejudice."
"That isn't right."
"No, darling. It isn't right."
They came to a gourmet shop, and her mother said she needed to do some
last-minute Christmas shopping. She selected four bottles of wine and had them
gift-wrapped.
Stepping outside, they noticed that the rain had turned to snow. By the time
they reached their car, it was coming down heavily. They placed their packages
in the trunk and worked together to brush the flakes from the windshield and
windows.
The girl slid into the front passenger seat and secured her seat belt. She
asked, "Who did you buy the wine for?"
"They're extra presents. Sometimes neighbors or people from your father's
law firm stop by unexpectedly with gifts. If that happens, I'll have something
to give them in return. I leave the name tags blank until I need them, then I
fill them in at the last minute."
"But isn't that dishonest?"
Her mother paused, then said, "If you brought someone a gift and received
nothing in return, how would that make you feel?"
"I don't know. I guess I'd feel sad."
"Of course you would. Anyone would." The woman turned the key in the
ignition and pulled slowly away from the curb. "Sometimes it's all right
to tell a small lie to avoid hurting someone's feelings."
The girl considered that for a few moments. "But it's still a lie, isn't
it?"
Her mother smiled. "You have a strong sense of justice. I hope you hold on
to it."
They drove east into Newton Lower Falls, where they enjoyed the Thursday-night
pasta special at their favorite Italian restaurant. It was still snowing when
they finished dinner; by then, two inches had fallen.
They drove back to Wellesley. It was about eight-thirty when Rachel Pace guided
her car up the inclined driveway, slipping slightly in the rapidly accumulating
cover of snow, and pulled into the garage.
They watched television together for a short while as the snow continued to
blanket their quiet street. Then the girl showered and readied herself for bed,
and she came downstairs to say good night. "Can I sleep in your bed with
you?"
"Not tonight, darling. I'm very tired, and you always thrash around when
you sleep. Besides, your father called this afternoon to say he may come
home a day early. It wouldn't be fair to make him sleep on the sofa after such
a long trip, would it?"
The girl's eyes opened wide with excitement. "You didn't tell me Daddy was
coming home tonight."
"I said he may come home tonight. With this weather, it's difficult to
know. I didn't want to give you false hopes." They kissed good night.
"Love you, darling."
"Love you, Mom." She walked toward the stairs, then turned around.
"Are you mad at Daddy?"
"Am I...No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"You keep saying `your father' instead of `Dad.' I just thought maybe
you're upset or something."
Her mother sighed. "I miss him, that's all. I don't like being alone at
night."
"You still have me."
Rachel Pace smiled. "Yes, darling. We'll always have each other."
A noise -- she didn't know what -- roused the girl from a deep dreamless sleep.
Nothing seemed amiss. The radiator hissed, the clock ticked, and her aquarium
bubbled softly in the far corner of the room: familiar and soothing sounds.
She rose -- too quickly -- and grew dizzy when the blood rushed from her head.
She waited until she felt steady, then walked to her window and pulled her
shade up. The snowfall had stopped, but only after laying a three- or four-inch
cover of white on the houses, sidewalks, and trees.
She heard a man's voice from down the hall and thought, He's finally home.
Then there was a single thumping noise, like something striking the wall that
separated her parents' room from hers, and she realized that a similar noise
seconds earlier must have awakened her. The noise came again moments later:
louder this time, making the wall vibrate. She heard her mother's voice -- a
muffled groan -- and wondered: Why are they rearranging the furniture?
She staggered into the hallway and walked toward her parents' door. It was open.
Their room was illuminated only by the dim glow of a night-light. The girl
thought she saw something move, and she heard a gasp or a wheeze -- like a weak
whooshing sound.
She flipped the wall switch. In a flash, bright light flooded the room. It
threw everything into crisp, stark relief.
They were locked in an embrace against the wall, clutching one another. She
thought, He's happy to be home. And then she understood: It was not her
father, and the embrace was anything but loving.
The man had her mother pinned against the wall. He wore dark pants and sweater,
gloves, and a ski mask. Everything about her mother registered instantly and
indelibly: her throat in the clutch of one of the assailant's hands as she
struggled for breath...her face being pummeled by the other hand...the trail of
spattered blood droplets on the wall behind her.
Her mother's eyes widened when they met hers. The woman said nothing, could say
nothing, and yet the girl knew what her mother was trying to tell her: Run
away! Run away! But fear seized her. She stood as though glued in place,
unable to turn away from the nightmare unfolding in front of her.
The attacker yanked Rachel's long hair, whipped her forward, then flung her
skull against the wall. She crumpled to the floor.
The man turned. The girl stared at him for the briefest of moments. Then she
looked at her mother: Horrible as that sight was, she couldn't look away, even
though she knew the attacker was moving toward her.
An ammonia-like odor enveloped her, a warm wetness spread down both legs, and
she realized she had wet herself. She looked down at her pajama bottoms. And as
she moved her gaze from her mother to herself, she saw it for the first time:
the small handgun, lying on the corner of the bed, fallen there during her
mother's futile struggle.
The man was almost upon her. She lunged for the pistol and grabbed it, falling
to the floor as she did so. He stopped in his tracks and hovered near her,
considering his next move.
He was panting; she felt his breath on her face. She aimed the barrel at the
man's chest, the widest part of the target. She tried to pull the trigger, she
wanted to pull the trigger, but fear kept her fingers frozen.
He dropped his hands to his sides. He slowly backed away. He fixed his eyes on
her as he moved toward the door. She held the pistol in front of her as he
backpedaled across the room.
He lingered briefly in the doorway. He hissed, "Until we meet again."
The man disappeared into the hallway, then ran down the steps and through the
house and out the back door.
And when the intruder was gone, when all was silent, her fingers finally
unlocked. She squeezed the trigger and fired wildly: once, twice, then two more
times in rapid succession, until the gun was empty.
The words echoed inside her head: Until we meet again.
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